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We’re caught up in a new summer entertainment at our house. Like a Hollywood movie, it has a little bit of everything. Drama! Comedy! Action! Romance! Medical people doing medical things! And, potentially, lots of swearing – all set against a sunny summer backdrop.

No, it’s not Baywatch, the movie my husband and I saw earlier this summer (two hours of our life we’ll never get back). In our family, it’s more like Babywatch.

A hurricane like this will be hitting our son’s house very soon

Yes, our son and daughter-in-law are at that stage in pregnancy where the baby’s been gestating for nine months, but it feels more like ten. Mom is so full of baby that she can’t see her feet and her lap is a distant memory. Our two-year-old granddaughter has accepted this new state of affairs regarding her mother’s altered shape with aplomb. But the child has no idea about the earth-shaking effects of the Category 5 Baby Hurricane that’s lurking just offshore and is about to make landfall right in the middle of her living room.

Our story has plenty of suspense, too, not to mention false alarms. For a grandparent, there’s nothing like getting a 2 a.m. phone call and driving through the dead of night to be at your son’s place so he can take his wife to the hospital without disturbing their other child. (“Let sleeping grandchildren lie” seems like a wise policy.)

It’s exciting, even thrilling, to be right on the cusp of a birth. But in this case, seeing the parents come back home disappointed after a couple of hours was definitely a low point.

While this story unspools in real time we’re all on full alert, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, night or day. And the baby, I believe, is enjoying the attention, toying with us, when he’s not busy drumming on his mother’s ribcage with his feet or seeing how far he can push out her belly button.

Would you trust either of these guys to deliver your baby?

In our Babywatch tale, there are no ocean waves, sandy beaches, or surfboards, much less a bare-chested David Hasselhoff (for fans of the TV series) or a bare-chested Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson (star of the current movie). There are no babes in bikinis, either, though there will be at least one babe in scanty clothing later on.

Like this summer’s movie, our version will probably have a few gross-out scenes, either in the delivery room or when the baby starts getting accustomed to using a diaper. And is it a coincidence that my daughter-in-law recently wound up with Zac Efron, who’s also starring in the movie, as her obstetrician in a Mad Libs baby shower game?

Much as I felt when watching the movie, I’m sure I’ll be relieved when our Babywatch is over. Unlike our film experience, our happy ending will arrive not with an empty bag of popcorn but with a wriggling, precious prize, like the best box of Cracker Jack ever.

My granddaughter loves balls. Or anything that looks remotely like a ball. She often has marbles and rocks jammed into her little fist. Though I’ve taught her that these items don’t go into her mouth, I don’t really trust her. She’ll lock eyes with me and slowly raise the marble or rock to her lips, waiting for me to object.

So, to distract her from the rocks and marbles she finds I’ve given her balls of different colors and sizes. It’s worked beautifully so far.

Until recently her biggest ball was a four-inch clear pink glittery one I got at the dollar store. It was so popular that this week I bought her an even bigger ball at a kid’s thrift sale. Her new ball is red with white polka dots and at least a foot in diameter.

I thought she’d love it, but she’s been giving it the cold shoulder. I think the red ball is too big for her to handle right now, mentally or physically. It’s like giving her a Great Dane when what she really wants is a Chihuahua.

In our granddaughter’s toy box are balls that light up if you bounce them hard enough, small balls with bells (actually cat toys), and a soft, squeezy fabric ball. A few months ago I found a pink golf ball, which I washed and gave to her. She was delighted. It fit perfectly in her little hand, and the pink golf ball quickly became her favorite.

A few of my granddaughter’s favorite balls

However, I have growing reservations about this ball because our granddaughter is learning to throw, and she has a pretty good arm for a toddler. Just ask my husband, who had a split-second to duck when he asked her to toss him the pink golf ball and she lobbed it at his head like she was a pint-sized Nolan Ryan. Grandpa will be the first to tell you that his little granddaughter’s speed and accuracy are really improving.

For that reason, the pink golf ball is beginning to look like a bad idea, especially in the house. But how do we take it away from her? Anyone who’s around children knows that unless you enjoy tantrums you don’t remove a favored toy without trading something in return. Even if the object in question is clearly, ridiculously dangerous, like a bag of broken glass, you don’t yank it out of their little hands without offering a replacement, like a bag of Styrofoam blocks.

So, to soften the disappearance of the golf ball I thought of pom-poms. I got the idea when my granddaughter came back from daycare with a paper cut-out of the letter P covered with pasted-on pom-poms. She carefully pried each pom-pom off the paper and played with them for the rest of the afternoon.

I went to the craft store and bought a big bag of 300 pom-poms in different colors and sizes. I poured them into a round box and when she saw them she dug her hands right in, grabbing as many as she could and throwing them into the air, laughing. And I laughed with her because I’m an indulgent grandmother and more tolerant of messes than I used to be.

“What fresh hell is this?” thinks our cat.

We stuffed pom-poms into her tea set, into her stacking cups, and wherever else we could think of. As we looked for new places to stuff the fuzzy things, she kept repeating “balls” with enthusiasm. Soon we may start sorting them, by size or by color, if she’s interested. But only if wants to.

Now, pom-poms do have some disadvantages. They’re light and fly everywhere. I’ve been finding them under the sofa, under the cat, in the dog’s dish and in crevices all around the house.

But unlike buttons and other small objects, pom-poms don’t seem to be mouth-magnets. If you step on a pom-pom barefoot in the middle of the night you probably won’t hop up and down swearing, like you would if you stumble on a Lego. And if a pom-pom gets thrown at your head, even a big pom-pom, you won’t get hurt.

As for putting pom-poms in her mouth, Little One hasn’t tried that yet, and I’m being vigilant. But I think I could explain a pom-pom finding its way through her digestive system and into her diaper much better than I could a pebble.

When to comes to baby gifts, grandparents are under pressure – as the eldest members of the family, they can’t just phone it in with a onesie. We’re expected to come up with something significant.

So I decided to venture into another direction, and research wacky baby gifts. I thought I might find an odd item here or there to elicit a chuckle.

Little did I know I’d find a tacky treasure trove.

Weird baby gifts abound on the web. Most of them are guaranteed to raise an eyebrow or two, and some could even get you laughed out of a baby shower.

But don’t take my word for it. After all, one person’s wacky is another person’s wonderful. Here’s a sampling of what I found – you be the judge:

The Babymop. An ingenious combination of a onesie and a sewn-on mop, this gift really delivers on many counts – baby gets exercise, the floors get clean, and it’s a fashion statement. Of course, while dusting the floor the baby also becomes a gunk magnet, but you can just give the baby a good shake over the trash can. And if you want to take it up a notch, use some mopping fluid. You can wring your little wiggler out later.

The iPotty. What parent hasn’t sat for what seems like hours next to a child on a potty chair, reading books and singing songs in an effort to convince their little ones that using the potty is better than wearing diapers? Now, instead of wasting all that time bonding with their children, parents can leave them in the plastic embrace of an iPotty. This award-winning (Worst Toy of the Year, 2013) device allows a toddler to work on those all-important No. 1 and No. 2 tasks while scanning educational videos, catching up on email and tweeting. It’s a real timesaver for busy tykes everywhere.

The Babykeeper. We’ve all been there – at the mall carrying an infant when nature calls. If you’re alone, where do you put your precious cargo while you attend to business? Babykeeper to the rescue! Now you can just hook your baby on the back of the stall door, just like your coat, purse and shopping bag. It doesn’t look weird at all, especially if baby swings on the open door as you exit the stall. Just don’t forget any of your personal belongings when you leave the ladies lounge!

Why Cry? Why, indeed? With this baby monitor, you don’t have to work to interpret your baby’s fussy mood. Is baby hungry? Tired? A microchip lets you know. Of course, it doesn’t cover unfocused crankiness and general complaints about the state of the world, which are other valid reasons for a baby to cry. So don’t be surprised if sensitive babies who hate being misunderstood throw this thing at your head as soon as they develop the necessary manual dexterity.

Travel urinal. Just. Don’t. Do it. As a woman who’s raised two sons, I can tell you that it takes lots of practice – years, really – for little boys to develop an accurate aim. What are the odds that they’ll make it inside froggie’s mouth, especially on the fly when you’re out and about? Sadly, not so good. Don’t give this gift to an unsuspecting mother unless you also include a big box of disposable wipes. (A plastic apron wouldn’t be amiss, either.)

Baby perfume. Sick of that new baby smell? Now, thanks to perfume-makers like Burberry and Dolce & Gabbana you can trade a synthetic perfume for the delicious scent that emanates from a baby’s head. That’s progress!

High heels. Release your baby’s inner Carrie Bradshaw and accustom her to high heels right from the cradle. Like their grown-up counterparts, these high-heeled shoes are impossible to walk normally in. But then, that’s not the point, is it?

Baby bangs.Embarrassed by a bald grandbaby? Tired of people asking if she’s a boy? Then you need Baby Bangs – a fringe of fake hair attached to a hairband for the follically challenged baby girl. And for those of you who saw the satirical skit about baby toupees on SNL years ago and thought it was just a joke, think again. (If you like, you can revisit that skit here.)

There are more crazy baby items where those came from, which I’ll cover in future posts. In the meantime, you can sleep soundly knowing the perfect baby gift is out there, waiting to be bought and presented to grateful parents everywhere.

As mentioned in a previous post, our 22-month-old granddaughter has developed quite a thing for Elmo.

And I’m beginning to think it’s gone too far.

When she was over the other day I put a Sesame Street video on after her lunch, to keep her occupied so I could eat mine. As I knew she would be, she was transfixed by the moving images, especially when Elmo appeared and started to sing in his unmistakable high squeaky voice.

Quickly finishing my meal and, feeling guilty about putting her in front of the TV, I tried to lure her away.

“Let’s play a game,” I said. “We can do puzzles, or read a book. We got a lot of books at the library today.”

She dragged her attention away from the video for a moment and looked at me. Solemnly she put a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” she admonished, pointing at the screen. “Elmo.”

(Yes, that’s right — my grandaughter shushed me for Elmo!)

That will go down in family lore as one of her very first full sentences – especially if you don’t count “He up,” which she said a couple of months ago while pointing at a squirrel climbing to the top of our fence.

Her preoccupation with Elmo means that all her old favorite books and videos have gone by the wayside. Now she barely looks up when Baby Beluga swims through the ocean. Old MacDonald doesn’t stand a chance of snatching her attention – he stands alone on his farm, spouting vowels and naming his livestock. And her old book favorite, Baby Ben, continues to cavort, clad only in his diaper, through all sort of adventures without her taking the least notice.

Talking to other parents, grandparents and even librarians I’ve come to understand that this fascination with Elmo is widespread. I just hope it doesn’t morph into a cult. Oregonians like me who remember the 80s know a thing or two about cults, thanks to the Rajneesh. Come to think of it, his followers wore red, too. Maybe not Elmo-red, but close enough.

Our son told us that our granddaughter recently woke up from her nap drowsily murmuring “Elmo.” If she had the motor skills she’d draw a big red heart and put her name and Elmo’s in the middle of it. Or if she was in school, she’d be scribbling “Mrs. Elmo” over all her folders.

Who’s going to tell her that Elmo is basically a furry red doll, manipulated by strings and sticks? Not me. She may have to endure similar heartbreaks when she’s older and can’t blame a puppet for her pain.

But there may be hope that her obsession will run its course someday soon. Lately, she’s shown a spark of interest in Curious George. Perhaps we can fan that spark into a flame with the billion Curious George books that are in the library. We’ll see. A mischievous monkey may be no better than a nauseatingly cute red monster.

But if, when our granddaughter hits her preteen years, there happens to be a boy band around that features a fuzzy-haired redhead with a squeaky voice, she may be reminded of her love for a certain Muppet.

If that happens, her current thing for Elmo, in retrospect, may look like a piece of cake.